


Where Are You Now (Nazareth)

by KittyAugust (KittyAug)



Series: Of Hunters and Hellblazers [30]
Category: Constantine (TV), DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), Hellblazer & Related Fandoms, Merlin (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Arthurian, Hell, Hellhounds, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-08-21 12:05:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16576139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittyAug/pseuds/KittyAugust
Summary: Gemma recruits Dean Winchester to help save her uncle from Hell. It goes about as well as you might expect.





	1. The Girl with the Demon-skin Trenchcoat

She’s young. Maybe even too young to be in here. But she’s also a round one knockout and she’s been eyeing Dean up like she wants to eat him for at least half an hour. So, Dean leaves Sammy to hustle a pool table full of frat boys on his own, and makes his own way up to the bar to say hello.

She’s got eyes such a dark brown that Dean thinks he might drown in them, black curls that fall perfectly to the sharp lines of her cheekbones. She’s got a lot of eyeliner and she’s wearing mostly dark colours, but a tan coat thrown over the back of the chair says she’s not all goth-rock chick, or not anymore. A pendant falls down to hide between the sweet swell of perfect breasts, a heart shaped neckline to accentuate her heart shaped face.

Dean pauses a moment, assesses his options and runs a few plays in his head. Dean doesn’t actually have to rely on lines all that much, most women know what they want from him the moment they see him. He just has to pick up enough queues and play the right part and please them best he can. He can normally tell enough from how they’re dressed and how they look at him that he’s well in character before he even opens his mouth. This time is different. He can’t quite get a read on this chick, there’s something hidden in the chocolate and coal of her eyes. It’s kind of hot.

“You mind if I buy you a drink?” Dean asks, tries on polite but confident for size.

“Yeah, a’right,” she says back with a bright, almost predatory smile. That’s a clue he can run with. Her north-English accent doesn’t hurt anything either.

Dean signals the bartender, orders the girl another gin and tonic and himself another bourbon. He doesn’t miss the way she watches him drink. Eyes on his throat.

“So,” he says, slur only almost noticeable and a touch of fake-Texas in his vowels. “What’s your name, sweetheart.”

“Gemma,” she says and smiles at him, sharp and full of teeth, something familiar which he can't quite place. Dean licks his lips and tries not to jump straight to thoughts of those same teeth on his skin. She flicks her hair out of her face and glances up at him from under her lashes, “What about you, handsome? Got a name I might like?”

“Dean,” Dean says in a moment of distracted honesty.

“Your real name?” Gemma says, swinging on her chair to fully face him. “I’m so flattered, Winchester.”

Dean freezes mid swaggering flirtation, eyes narrowing but not sure how far to tip his hand. He’s got his favorite gun in his back pocket, a steel knife in his boot, a silver one in his sleeve. Three cold iron pins in the cuff of his flannel shirt, holy water in the breast pocket; rosary in his front right jeans pocket, salt in the rear left, and a hunting knife in the hidden one inside of his jacket. Protective hex bag in his shoe. It’s not ideal, but it’s better than nothing.

“Who are you, and what do you want?”

“I told you who I am, I’m Gemma." She smiles like a predator. "Gemma Masters, and you’re going to help me, 'cause you owe me mate.”

Masters, he knows that name. This girl may even look a bit like Meg’s first vessel and namesake, but she’s as British as punk rock and scones. It’s something else, eating away annoyingly at the edge of recollection like an incontinent chihuahua. She's still looking at him like she's got all the cards and it's not Meg, not the real one, that she's reminding him of.

“What are you, some kind of witch?”

“Magus, actually. But that isn’t the point.”

“What is,” Dean asks, no longer pretending to be drunk. Even if she is into the whole taking advantage thing, he's not playing that kind of game anymore. Now it doesn’t matter what she’s into unless it helps him and his brother avoid dismemberment. In Dean's experience, people who know his name before he knows theirs are almost always bad news.

“The point is, my uncle just got himself dragged back to Hell, and you’re Dean Winchester, which means you’re going to get him back for me.”

Uncle? Who the hel-

She stands up and picks up the coat. The coat. Goddamnit. He shouldn’t even be surprised at this point. She puts it on with a practiced flick, not quite practiced enough though. Still bargain basement. That's who she reminds him of.

“What, now you’re gonna offer me a Silk Cut?” Dean asks, only almost joking. Maybe almost hoping. Constantine hasn't been answering his calls, but he hadn't been worried. Not until now. Not really.

“Nope, don’t smoke.” Gemma gives Dean a considering look, “So far, it’s one of my uncle’s dangerous habits I’m not fond of. You, on the other hand, I might get used to.”

“Thanks... I think.”

"Is it true? What they say about you and Hell?"

"Depends what they say," says Dean, playing for time.

"They say that you Winchester lads've got the King of Hell on speed dial?"

"Not anymore. Your news is out of date."

Gemma shrugs. "That's alright, I've got other options." She pulls something out of her pocket. It's an old coin. A very old coin. "Looks like we're doing this the old fashioned way."

Dean forces a tight smile. "My favorite," he lies.

She tosses him the coin, and he catches it instinctively. Probably a bad instinct for a hunter, but it's too late now.

"Oh, and by the way, Meg Masters  _ was _ my cousin. I know you recognised my name for her as well. You owe my family on every side it's got. Just so we're clear?" 

"Crystal," says Dean, through clenched teeth. 

Everyone Dean has ever cared about ends up leaving him, dead, or worse. It's just how it goes. Of all of them John Constantine had seemed both the most and least likely to go in the darkest, hardest, bloodiest way possible. Dragged back to Hell by invisible teeth and claws isn't a pretty image but it was a risk the old bastard knew about when he started fighting or playing or whatever the fuck it was he was doing when he stuck himself between Heaven and Hell. Dean should have known this was coming. That doesn't make it hurt any less, and it doesn't mean he isn't going to try get the cocky son-of-a-bitch back. He's almost insulted that Gemma thinks she has to pressure him into it. Except she learned how this world works from Constantine, and loyalty isn't something that gets rewarded in Constantine's world. 

"Where'd you get the coin?" Dean's playing for time and they both know it.

"Won it off a bloke who got it from Lucifer. It's a whole other story."

She looks a lot like John when she grins like that.

"Let's get this over with," Dean snarls and starts stalking for the door. He never should have thought this hunt was meant to be an easy one. Never relax if you burn the ghost in less than a week. When will he learn.

~*)O(*~

It's too late, by the time Dean realises just how little Gemma Masters really knows the forces they're messing with. It's too late to back down or back out. Too late to try protect her. Constantine is going to make him suffer for letting the kid get dragged into this, Dean can tell. But it's too late, and time is ticking. Dean has to wonder if it's John Constantine's bad influence when he lets Gemma cast the spell anyway. 


	2. Bad Romance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosacarnis and Zatanna Zatara join our story.

Rosacarnis has chosen a beautiful face to torment him with today. Goody.

"Come on, John. What's it hurt to play along? Just a little?"

She's dressed up like something out of a 50s sitcom. Curled hair, poodle skirt, frilly apron, the works. She's left her eyes blood red though, ruins the image a touch.

"Playing house has never really worked out for us, love. Remember how many people died last time?"

She smiles, gives a little shiver of pleasure, one John remembers all too well. "Oh yes, I remember exactly how many people died. And how many came back unharmed. One day I'm going to find Maria and make her pay for helping you. That'll be fun, won't it? I wonder if she has your guts or mine? Maybe I'll compare them, side by side?"

She's threatening her own daughter, but Maria is John's kid too, that's always been the problem. Bloody demons.

John tugs at the chains binding him to the picture perfect dining room table. Could probably be worse, the last little hellscape he had a flayed man for a throne. Lace curtains and cherry print tablecloths should be a relief. Unfortunately, John knows Rosa better than that. Messing with his mind is even more fun for her than messing with his blood or breaking his bones. She like that too, though. She's Nergal's daughter, through and through. Rosacarnis is at her most dangerous when she gets creative.

"I've got plans for us today, John," Rosa says. Of course she does.

She leans over him, close enough to kiss. John flinches away but it's too late. The cloying rotten smell of her perfume fills his lungs. He's already dizzy from it.

When she kisses him John doesn't fight her. She only wants it if she knows he doesn't he's learned to give in quick and avoid it getting worse. He's getting good at locking himself away, biding his time until she sends someone else to torture him. Someone he can maybe con into letting him go. John represses the thought as quick as it comes, this close and touching him she can read his mind like a picture book. He focuses on the feeling of his pulse instead. The thump, thump, thump, of his fake heart beating in his ghostly chest. Tries to ignore the dangerous slide of her forked tongue on his, and her clawed hand on the back of his neck.

Rosa breaks the kiss and shoves John away, hard. 

"Don't be boring, John."

"Sorry honey, I've got a touch of headache. Maybe tomorrow night?"

Her eyes flash. John wonders if it's possible to get her angry enough that she'll obliterate him. Maybe if he can be boring and annoying enough in equal measure she'll consider trading him. God knows there's enough demons in Hell who want a turn at flaying his hide. He must be worth a fortune in demonic trade by now. 

"I'm not selling your soul, Johnny. You've done enough of that yourself, don't you think?"

He glares at her, even though he knows defying her is what she wants. Fighting it just makes it worse because that's what she bloody well expects. The higher he starts, the harder he falls, and oh how Rosacarnis likes watching him fall. She doesn't want him to lick her boots because she likes it, she just wants to make him do whatever it is he doesn't want to do. It would be a whole lot of hot if he had any say in it. It's the sort of game that's oh so fun to play, and whole lot of shite to live. Or, not-quite-live, as the case may be.

Rosa grabs his jaw, her clawed nails dig into his skin hard enough to draw blood. Just lovely.

"That's more like it," she whispers, then licks a drop of blood from his throat.

When the ground starts shaking, Rosacarnis is close enough that John sees the shock in her blood-red eyes. This isn't her.

"What was that?" he asks, hopes she's distracted enough to respond.

"I don't know." Suspicious but maybe, just maybe, scared. "The King hasn't been himself."

John scoffs. Crowley hasn't been himself for a while. Not since the Winchesters let Lucifer out of his cage for the second bloody time. John can't really blame him. But if he can get Crowley's attention, that might be his way out. Rosa might own the contract, but Crowley owns the demons, even those blood-born in Hell like Rosacarnis. Crowley's always had a soft spot for blokes who stand up to him, and John sure as fuck does that.

Rosacarnis laughs.

"Oh Johnny boy, your news is so out of date. Even down here. Crowley isn't the King anymore. That upstart little human-spawn hasn't held the reins in days."

Well, fuck. Crowley might be an evil little bastard, but at least he was a beaurocrat. A creative beaurocrat, but he knew his job and he stuck to it. A shake up down here, right now, is the last thing John needs. 

Think, Constantine...

"Is that why you really came to visit me yourself, luv?"

Rosacarnis laughs, high and inhuman. Then she slaps him, hard. But she doesn't deny it. It's not a lot, but it's more than he had yesterday.

~*)O(*~

"Oh no, not happening." The demon shakes his head emphatically. 

Dean longs for the Mark of Cain in the most normal way he ever has. He just wants to squeeze the son-of-a-bitch until it chokes.

"I don't care who you say you are," the demon continues. "I'm not selling out Daddy."

"Daddy?" says Dean, shocked despite himself. Demons, man. So gross, so unexpected.

The demon shrugs. Unrepentant, it's kind of their thing.

"Listen," Gemma says, more menacing because it's so low and clam. "I'm a Constantine. And you know what that means, Timmy. You do what I say, or I burn you up right where you sit."

'Timmy' looks Gemma up and down and smirks like he won. Big balls for a dude chained to a chair and caught in a double devils trap.

"I don't think you've got it in you, Masters. I knew your cousin, you know. Back before our Megara gave up her skin. Such a pretty little blonde. Just our type."

Dean can't even blame her when Gemma stabs him with her own version of Sammy's demon killing knife. Timmy flickers, screaming, then goes dark. The host was dead before they caught him, empty meatsuit slumps forward and starts to stink.

Gemma's looking at her hand though and that's never good. Blood. Human blood, despite the demonic taint.

"Don't let them get to you," Dean says. Realises it was the right-wrong thing to say when Gemma turns on him. With fire in her eyes she looks so much like John, he wants to hurl.

"Don't  _ you _ let them get to me!"

Dean puts up his hand in surrender. 

"You're in charge, miss. What's our next move?"

"You."

"Um…"

"You're going to summon him. The other him. He's our way in, and maybe our way out."

Dean considers lying to her, but with John dead he's pretty sure that makes Gemma the next Laughing Magician. Probably better not try that play just yet.

"How do you even know all of this?"

"Chas," she admits. She's looking at the corpse instead of Dean. Not a good sign.

"Where is Chas?" Dean realises, too late, that it really should have been Chas and Zed coming to get him not Gemma. Not if Chas agreed with her plan.

"Exploring other options." Gemma storms out of the room, locking herself in the motel en suite. Dean pretends not to hear her cry.

~*)O(*~

"C'mon Zee. He'd do it for you?" Chas argues, uselessly. Zatanna Zatara and John are cut from the same cloth, no matter how much they like to deny it. Maybe different side of it, but same fabric deep down.

His comment is enough to get her to pause in applying her eyeliner. She looks Chas in the eye, just via the dressing room mirror.

"No. He wouldn't."

"Zee?"

"No, Chas. John brought this on himself. Do you know how much messed up stuff has been going down these last few years because of John Constantine?"

"That wasn't all him," Chas argues. Still useless, but he's got to try. Zatanna loved John once. It's got to count for something.

"How many people does he have to burn in front of you before you realise the only person John Constantine cares about is himself? How many people would the 'Hellblazer' actually go to Hell for, Chas?"

He pauses. He wants to think like John, wants to know what to say even if it's all a bag of lies. But all he has left is himself and his own honesty.

"Not many," Chas admits. "Not unless he knew he'd win. But we both know you're one of 'em Zee. No matter what went down in New York."

"You're forgetting Manchester, Chas. John got my father killed, and no one went to Hell and back for Giovanni Zatara."

Chas doesn't have anything to say to that. It must show on his face, because she spins her chair so she's actually facing him.

"That curse John put on you, it was Arthurian, right?"

"It's not a curse," Chas says, right to her face. It's not quite a lie. It wasn't meant to be a curse.

"Arthurian though, right?"

"Yes."

"Then i might know a guy. I'm not going to help, don't drag my name into it. But, yeah, I might know a guy."

"Zee!" He considers hugging her but thinks better of it.

"I'm trusting you, not him. You get that right Chas?"

"Yeah, sure." Whatever gets the job done, that was John's motto and Chas is happy enough to borrow it tonight. 

"Don't make me regret this Chandler."

"Never." It's not even a lie.


	3. Albion

"I'm here to see the Old Man in the Old Room," Chas tells the old woman at the Stonehenge ticketing desk. "Zatanna sent me," he adds, just to make it even more ridiculous. Zatanna isn't John and she isn't big on practical jokes in a crisis, it probably isn't a trick, but who knows.

The little old lady lights up at his words though, eyes twinkling as she closes her counter immediately and beckons Chas to follow her into the little British Heritage office behind the main reception area. Chas remembers John saying something once about never trusting a nice old lady, second favorite costume for a certain kind of demon, second only to creepy children. Chas really hopes the little old lady isn't a demon. Maybe he should have brought Zed even if she is still recovering from their last showdown with Manny and Nergal. The same showdown that got them in this mess.

"Go on then dear, I can't go with you I'm afraid. Did Zatara give you a key?"

"Yeah," Chas says, rubbing his thumb over the old coin in his pocket. "I think so."

She smiles and nods, then pulls aside an old floral curtain on one wall. Behind the curtain is a pretty normal looking office door. Except, instead of a lock or a handle, it just has a small round slot like a vending machine. Just the right size for an ancient medieval coin. Chas sighs. He was kind of hoping this was all a waste of time. He normally leaves the magic and demons up to John, he's more of a wheelman and semi-immortal muscle. This isn't really his area of expertise.

Chas puts the coin in the slot. The door opens. There's no light or sparks or smoke. Just a door in a messy office that was closed and now hangs slightly ajar. The little old lady tries to peer around Chas as he walks through the door, but Chas has been around enough of these blocks by now to know that looking back isn't advised. Chas goes through the door like Zatanna told him to, still not sure what he'll find at the other end.

The corridor on the other side is also normal, a bit dingy and disused, but normal. The concrete walls are painted an industrial shade of green and there are steps down into the cool embrace of the earth. There's fluorescent strip lighting. John said something about Stonehenge and fairies, something about 'snogging Titania and then Oberon too'. By mistake, apparently. Chas really hopes it isn't fairies. Fairies bite and they change the rules on you. Chas would really prefer it if the world stuck to its own rules a bit more, now and then.

The steps level out, and then the corridor turns, a sharp left, then a sharp right a few hundred feet further, then a few hundred more. He must walk half a mile, at least. Then, finally, there's another door at the end. This one is much older, medieval maybe, and built directly into a stone rockface. It's not even a stone wall, just sheer rock, with the door in the middle. At least this one has a handle.

Chas knocks. If it is fairies he's going to at least try to be polite. Whatever that means to a fairy though, he doesn't know. 

"Come in," calls a fairly young and unplaceable yet posh male voice from the other side. "You're a bit early for lunch, but that's alright I suppose."

Chas opens the old wooden door and enters a huge space. It reminds him a bit of the Mill House. And the Winchesters' bunker, and any number of other old magical hideouts John has dragged him into over the years. This one is also a cave. A big cave, with a sheer drop on the opposite side instead of a fourth wall which might lead to an even bigger cavern. The three remaining walls, however, including the one with the door have hundreds of books in dozens of mismatched bookcases and various ragtag furnishings pressed up against them, things like desks covered in alchemy equipment and suits of very old armour. There is a mezzanine loft in one corner, that might house a bed, with a large ladder leading up to it and a 50s style kitchenette below it. It's almost cozy in a mysterious mis-matched kind of way. John would be right at home.

In the middle of the room are more desks and large tables. All of them are covered in stuff and things of varying levels of mysteriousness. All except a large round stone table off to one side. It's clean and has two chairs set up together on one side, but it seems disused. The only thing on the round stone table is a cracked sword hilt. Chas probably doesn't want to know what any of that one is about. There are electric lights in old-fashioned sconces on the walls, and a few lamps here and there, but there's also a ball of what seems to be magic near the roof. Pure and pulsating and Chas may not know a lot about magic but he knows to be scared of that much power being used that casually.

There is also a large stone altar slab, off to one side, also glowing a bit, and a young man puttering around with some kind of magical experiment. Or maybe a chemistry set. It can be hard to tell. 

"Oh," says the young man, looking up as Chas closes the door behind him with a click. "You're not Wendy?"

"No," says Chas.

"She didn't quit did she? I quite liked Wendy, even if she is a bit young. She has been talking about wanting to see more of those grandchildren of hers though, hasn't she? It would have been nice to have a little warning though, if it was a holiday. Did I have warning?"

The young man has dark, shaggy hair, big ears, handsome despite it, and a terrifyingly knowing glint in his eyes. He wipes his hands clean on a rag and wanders around the stone altar to get a better look at Chas. What Chas had assumed to be some kind of mystical robes turns out to be an ornate but quite ordinary dressing gown once the guy gets into the light.

"I don't know where, or who Wendy is," says Chas. The rush of words and constant distraction, the smell of sulfur and frankincense, the incongruous dress sense, it's all a little too much like John. "I don't… work here?"

"Oh. Oh! An actual visitor. How lovely. Shall I put on some tea?"

The guy is already bundling himself off to the kitchenette. He waves at the pale green kettle, which has seen better days, and it fills itself and starts to boil. Chas isn't all that surprised to notice it isn't even plugged in.

"Well you know who I am, if you made it this far, I presume, but who are you young man and what brings you all this way?"

The guy is younger than Chas. Well, he looks younger than Chas, but the casual use of ;young man' and the mention of how 'young' Wendy with grandkids was makes Chas wonder. He's also offering Chas a jammy biscuit on a chipped victorian plate.

"Um, I don't actually know who you are," Chas tells him, accepting the cookie but not taking a bite. "My name's Chas, and Zatanna Zatara sent me."

"Oh, right. Well, I'm Merlin and the Zataras are my…" he waves a hand. "Descendants, I suppose."

Merlin, god what were his parents thinking, and Chas thought Francis was hard. But then, Chas thinks about all the other clues and takes that in. Blinking. Merlin. Right.

"Oh where are my manners, have a seat, please." Merlin, (that's a joke, right?) motherfucking  _ Merlin _ , offers Chas a seat. It's an ornate wooden thing, one of a set, but both chairs are set at a rickety old formica table near the kitchen. The chair has a modern cushion, it has a kitten on it. 

Chas sits.

Merlin takes a seat opposite him and the tea tray floats over and starts serving them.

"It's about John Constantine," says Chas. He's found it pays to lead with that when he's dealing with people from John's world, even if he's not sure this counts as even John's world any more. He can get through the shock, anger, and disgust upfront if people do know John, and then move on to the actual business end if they haven't kicked him out or killed him yet. 

Merlin doesn't seem angry, but he does flinch at the name though, just a little and glance over at the round stone… no, not a round stone table, the Round Table, on the other side of the room. How is this Chas's life? 

"A Constantine. Of course." Merlin smiles weakly at Chas over the top of his teacup. "Do go on."

"He's stuck in Hell." Chas has always prefered to get to the point. He's not like John, he can't weave words like a story, and he can't spin things to get his way. Asking outright is all he's got and this seemed like a long shot anyway.

Merlin looks sad, a bit like a kicked puppy. "I'm sorry, kid. I can't bring back the dead… well, I can, but it doesn't work out. Not like you want it to."

"He's not dead. He's just stuck. We've got his…" Chas swallows and forces himself to say it. "We've got his body, somewhere safe. He was going in to fix something, something he fucked up, and then well, he saved the kid but he fucked the rest up even more. It's sort of what he does." Chas shakes his head, that was pretty damn loquacious for Chas. He is not sure why he's baring this much of his heart to a total stranger. An unfathomably strange and magical stranger. Maybe that's it. Maybe Merlin reminds him just a bit of what John could have been, if he wasn't so busy fucking about being John.

"You know, I always thought Uther would have been horrified to find out where his bloodline ended up, with the Constantines, but I think Arthur would have been proud." Merlin smiles a bit more this time. "I met Johanna Constantine a few centuries back, she was a, what's the term? It's a plane? A real spitfire, that's what Johanna was, and they hadn't even invented the word yet. She looked like a Penndragon, too. It should have hurt, but it didn't."

Chas isn't stupid, he's quiet and he's big, but he isn't stupid. He can read between those lines. It makes an awful kind of sense. John's always scoffed at destiny and ancient bloodlines, but it still manages to screw him over anyway. Angels, demons, fairies, why not ancient kings as well. All ganging up on John from beyond the grave and trying to force him to be the hero he's never admitted he wants to be. Maybe this is what John meant when he said he felt like his whole life was the but of someone else's joke. A stepping stone on someone else's curse.

"How?" Chas isn't even sure what he's asking, but he thinks Merlin doesn't get a lot of visitors and might know want to answer.

"The same way it always happens, Chas. I know what the world remembers, of me and of Arthur. But it wasn't like that, not back then. Arthur was just a kid. We both were. He was good, but he wasn't pure. He was no Sir Galahad. Nor Galehaut, for that matter. There was a pretty girl, nice enough. Mahony, or Mary? Something like that. She worked in the stables, I think her father was to be stable master. Arthur died without an heir, but this girl, she had a blonde blue-eyed baby, if you see what I mean. The king paid her handsomely to take her handsome child far away. Her father took a position in King Mark's court at Cornwall and she went with him. That was that. I don't think Arthur ever knew, but back then that was the least of my secrets.

"So," says Merlin, shifting the subject suddenly. John-like in the way he speeds away from the past when it cuts too close to home. "What seems to be the problem with your Constantine? How long has he been gone? Time moves faster down there than it does up here, you know."

"Yeah, I know. It's been three months, so far."

"That is not good."

"Yeah, I know."

~*)O(*~

"He looks dead," Dean says. 

Dean's knuckles are turning white from the deathgrip he has on the bed-rail. Dean's the only one who crossed the sigils around the bed, he pretends not to notice that.

Zed or Chas or Gemma, has put Constantine in some kind of old portable hospital bed. It makes him look like he's really sick, or really dead. It seems more real and less magic-woo-woo bullshit when he's hooked up to a drip and strapped to a medical gurney instead of lying in some crappy motel bed. It's too technical. Too real.

The bed is at least in the middle of some really large and complicated warding sigils, set up in the middle of the main room at the Mill House. They could have put him in his own bed, couldn't they. But they didn't and it isn't up to Dean to complain. Maybe there's a reason. Maybe there isn't. 

"He is dead," says Sam, unhelpfully. "Sort of." He gives the flatlining heart monitor a meaningful look and a shrug. At least someone has ripped the speaker out already, otherwise Dean would have had to. Why have they even got it hooked up, it's a fucking awful reminder that John's heart isn't beating, that the bag of fluids they've got ready to go has nowhere to flow. Dean kind of wants to smash some of it anyway, but he manages not to.

Zed staggers over to them, just to the edge of the magic circle, standing next to Sam and Gemma. She's using a cain and looks almost as bad as Constantine despite the fact she's up and breathing. Whatever went down with the Hellblazer and his little crew while Dean was stuck in the middle of Amara and Chuck's heart-to-heart, it was bad. Worse than Dean knew. Fucking Hellblazer, always demanding help right until the one time he really needs it.

"So, what's next?" Zed asks.

How the fuck are Dean and Sam meant to know the answer to that one. Except, maybe Dean does have one idea.

"We summon him. Even if we only get the  _ other _ him, see if that works. I bet the demon version doesn't want the real one running around Downstairs when there's no clear King of Hell anyway. It's worth a shot."

"We thought of that," says Gemma. She's still so unimpressed with both Dean and Sam, and Dean can't really blame her. The whole petulant teen thing reminds him a bit of Claire Novak. "None of us know how and Uncle John didn't write it down anywhere we can find. Last time I asked, you said you couldn't either." 

Typical, for a man who relies on other people's old spells John never had been big on keeping good records of his own.

"I know how," Dean admits.

"You do?" Sam sounds surprised. Funny how he can still do that, at this point.

"Yeah," says Dean. He doesn't bother explaining, Sam'll probably try rip it out of him later, but right now he needs a broken mirror,  pack of silk-cuts and something John's worn but not washed yet. It's usually easier to find than it should be.

~*)O(*~

Asmodeus has been possessing the same poor bloke since the American Civil War and he looks pretty much the same Down Here as he did the last time John saw him over in Egypt a few years back. Apart from the gigantic bloody rams horns, bleeding wing stumps, and the Lucifer's Enochian mark bleeding through his chest, of course. Still basically the same smug bastard.

The earthquake (hellquake?) stops now that Asmodeus has appeared.

"Thought you was retired, mate?" says John.

Rosacarnis ignores John and bows to the Prince of Hell instead. "Your majesty, what a delightful surprise. What brings you to my sovereign corner of Hell?" There's a spiteful challenge in her tone, and sometimes John can see what he liked about her in that alternative universe where she tricked him into fathering three half-demon kids.

"Now, now, Rosa, I am your uncle as well as your temporary King, you know that. With your mother Dagon indisposed and my brother-in-law Nergal disposed of, I feel honour bound to keep an eye on you, 'my dear'."

That's all bad news for John, as far as he can tell. But it's not great for Rosacarnis either. So there's that. Asmodeus smiles, demon slick and sickening. Rosa forces a smile too.

"How kind of you."

"Indeed. I see you have the infamous Hellblazer at your disposal?" 

Well, shit. How is he going to get out of this one? Asmodeus might be even more creative than Rosa, if less personal, and he'll certainly be harder to con. He might be open to a deal though, maybe. If John can just-

Asmodeus flicks all his blazing attention on John, all of a sudden. "I am not your salvation, Constantine. You won't be the first Laughing Magician I have had the pleasure of destroying, and you will not be the last. Hell is getting quite the collection of those Masters brats, it'll be quite nice to add another so soon, don't you agree?'

"Don't you even sodding think about touching Gemma, you smarmy cunt." John struggles, uselessly, against the bone and gristle chains that bind him to his vinyl kitchen chair.

"Too late." 

When Asmodeus smiles just like that, John thinks he might throw up. If only Hell would let him.


End file.
